


A Precious Package

by mebfeath



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU eventually, F/M, another take on that episode 6 scene, because who really thinks she let him go that easily?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 11:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mebfeath/pseuds/mebfeath
Summary: He leans forward slowly, carefully, eyes closed and tilting his head at the last moment to press his lips softly to the soft skin of her cheek before moving away slightly. It's intoxicating, being so close to her, and he doesn’t want to move. He knows he should, he knows he should back away and leave gracefully. This doesn’t need to be any harder on her than it clearly already is.And then she moves and he freezes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this scene in my mind for so long and it was beginning to cloud all else, so here you go. I have used most of the dialogue from that scene, so thanks to Daisy Goodwin for writing some lovely dialogue (that broke all of our hearts).
> 
> I promise I'm still working on The Little Queen, but going to the UK and having no time to write but an abundance of inspiration and education has led me to question everything ever and add scenes and I'm getting there, I promise...

He turns the corner and his step falters a little; she is waiting for him. Alone. Their eyes meet and he drops her gaze instantly, swallowing. She doesn’t deserve to see his pain. This was her day, and he would be nothing but encouragement and support, as he always was. So he schools his features as much as he can, knowing he’d fail at least a little, and approaches carefully, his eyes on the floor as he bends to take her hand and kiss it almost automatically.

Her eyes follow him, he knows; her gaze penetrates his soul as it always had, and always would.

But if he didn’t speak, he’d cry, so he forces out the words.

‘Congratulations, ma’am. I’ve never seen you look more radiant.’ He blinks at the emotion hidden in his voice, his eyes finally meeting hers. This time, it was she who dropped his gaze.

The words were heavy in the air between them, struggling with the weight of emotion and far, far too much water under the bridge, but there was no lie in them. She had looked every bit the blushing bride in her orange blossoms and white lace, and he had felt the burn of every spoken word, every moment in the Chapel where she’d pledged her life and heart to another man.

He watches as she struggles to find words for whatever it is she wants to say to him, and it hits him; he knows that face, knows those eyes, knows that tremble of her lips.

It’s her visit to Brocket Hall all over again.

His heart his beating painfully in his chest as she starts to speak, and the tremor in her voice steals the breath from his lungs.

‘You once told me…that when I gave my heart…I would give it without reservation.’

How can she do this to him, on this day of all days? How can she tug at what little is left of his heart, cracked and broken as it is?

Surely, surely, she must know how much that day – that night – cost him. He has few moments in his life where the pain was blinding, soul-destroying. The death of his son, his daughter. His wife.

The day he gave her up.

But she cannot do this for so many other reasons; she must, must give her heart to Albert now. She cannot do anything else. Albert is shrewd, intuitive, sensitive; he will know if his wife is not devoted to him, and Victoria never could hide her feelings. The jealousy in the Prince’s face is something he ashamed to admit he almost treasures, but that time is now over. She must forsake him completely now for her husband, a husband who Melbourne knows will not tolerate sharing his wife’s affections. In some ways, he’s glad; Victoria will more than likely not have to share his.  
Her happiness counts on all of this, and her happiness is what is most important now.

‘Yes, I remember,’ he says, almost cutting her off, his voice low and harsh.

‘And you were almost right,’ she says, undeterred by his reaction, and he can feel his heart swelling in his chest.

He cannot resist. ‘Almost, ma’am?’ he says, his voice broken by emotion.

He knows what she is saying; he knows like he knows her voice, her laugh, the crinkle of her eyes when she smiles at him, the sound of her steps as she walks away from him.

But his desperate heart has to hear it.

She holds his gaze, the bittersweet smile on her face as she breathes deeply with unchecked emotion telling him she knows what he is doing, that she sees right through him.

‘I shall never forget,’ and her voice is low and heavy and oh, he loves her so, so much, this beautiful Queen of his. The flood of emotions threatens to overwhelm him, but he can’t look away from her. He’s gripping his hands so hard now it hurts, but it’s a good pain – he needs something, anything to distract him from this.

But this is his last chance, he thinks, to communicate his own love and devotion, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take it.

‘May I kiss the bride?’ he asks, and she gives him a soft, amused smile, dropping his gaze and taking the smallest of steps towards him.

He takes a step forward himself, keeping a respectable distance between them, his hands clasped firmly together still, and as he leans forward he realises faintly that this is the closest he’s ever really been to her, and the closest he will ever be.

As he leans forward he takes a breath; she smells of vanilla and lavender and all those familiar scents he’s come to associate with her, but they’re tempered now by the scent of the flowers; the orange blossoms that spent so long in her hair that day.

It’s a harsh reminder that she belongs to another man.

He leans forward slowly, carefully, eyes closed and tilting his head at the last moment to press his lips softly to the soft skin of her cheek before moving away slightly.

It was intoxicating, being so close to her, and he doesn’t want to move. He knows he should, he knows he should back away and leave gracefully. This doesn’t need to be any harder on her than it clearly already is.

And then she moves and he freezes.

Her hand is on his face, her palm resting on his jaw and her warm fingers barely touching the skin of his cheek. Her other hand finds his clasped hands and he automatically releases his grip, and she takes his hand in her tiny one, but he doesn’t move.

She shifts ever so slightly on to her tiptoes, and he can feel her breath on his cheek and he doesn’t move.

He has no idea what she’s doing, until she speaks.

‘Take good care of my heart, Lord M,’ she whispers in his ear, and his heart shatters in his chest.

And then her lips are brushing his cheek, her hand moving slightly so the tips of fingers are in his hair and every part of him is on fire.

But then she moves back and drops his hand and she’s turning and walking – no, running – down the hall and he’s watching her run away from him, taking his own heart with her, and he’s numb.

He moves to touch his cheek where she’d kissed it – she’d kissed him – and he can still feel the warmth her hand on his where she’d been gripping it tightly.

He must move; he mustn’t linger here, his mind tells him, and he realises he’s wringing his hands together as he turns to make his way up the stairs before he stops, turning back to watch her disappear around a corner at the end of the hall.

But she stops before she makes it around the corner, and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before she’s gone and he stands there, staring down the now empty, dark hall, alone, but carrying the most precious thing in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks she understands what the inevitable looks like now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. Thank you for the lovely comments!

The tightness in his chest and the way his stomach revolts at the thought of food tells him one thing: she returns from her honeymoon today. She’s only been gone a few days, and he’s spent a good deal of that time in a daze, his mind fixated on his last moments with her.

He knows she’ll summon him not long after she arrives; she’d argued with both him and Albert about the length of her honeymoon. It was one thing that he and Albert had both agreed upon, but she had overruled them both, arguing that she had too much to do as monarch. She would be gone for three days, and three days only.

She isn’t waiting for him when he arrives; he’s shown into her study and told she will be with him momentarily, and he’s mildly relieved not to have to face Albert again just yet. He mostly likes the Prince – well, he thinks he will like him more when he’s settled into his role and is less…ill-tempered – but he doesn’t particularly feel the need to make small talk with him. Particularly not now.

He wonders if the Prince Consort has any idea.

And she arrives, and their eyes meet for a moment before he drops to one knee and kisses her outstretched hand.

‘Lord M,’ she says warmly, and he can’t help but give her a small smile when he stands.

‘Welcome home, ma’am,’ he says, his gaze level and his face deliberately neutral. She gives him a small, knowing smile before dropping his gaze and turning towards her desk.

‘Thank you,’ she replies before turning back to him. He holds her gaze; he’s not entirely sure what she’s looking for. But then she lets out a small breath and her smile widens slightly before her expression turns into something more serious. ‘What has parliament decided about China in my absence?’ she asks, her voice strong, and they’ve shifted into work mode.

It’s much, much later when they have finished the paperwork in her boxes and he’s taking his leave that she speaks.

‘That package I left you, Lord M,’ she says when he’s not looking at her, only the tiniest hint of a tremor in her voice. He blinks, his hands stilling over the clasp on the box. ‘I trust you have taken good care of it?’

He takes a short breath before turning to look at her, his eyes burning. ‘The very best, ma’am,’ he says, and he can’t help how his voice is low and gravelly with emotion, as much as he tries.

And she gives him a small smile, her face vulnerable but strong at the same time, and he can’t help the way the corner of his mouth ticks up a little.

He doesn’t think it will take Albert very long.

 

***

 

He is no stranger to marriage and subsequent children, but he’s caught off guard at her announcement.

She’s pregnant.

He knows he should be happy for her, and he is. But it also means that he will need to work with the regent once she has given birth, and he’s a selfish man in love with the Queen and, naturally, he thinks, he doesn’t relish the thought of her absence. That, and he’s not particularly looking forward to spending that much time with Albert.

He doesn’t think the Prince knows. If he does, he’s said nothing, and Victoria has given no indication that things are anything other than happy. Anyway, her marriage must be relatively good – she’s only been married a few short months and she’s pregnant already.

He is happy for her – she needed to produce an heir, and this will only increase her popularity with her people, something a monarch can never have too much of.

So he smiles – a genuine smile – and congratulates her.

But he was a father, and he knows that love, so he speaks again.

‘The package that you left with me for safekeeping is available for collection whenever you should wish it, ma’am.’ And her eyes widen in what he thinks is worry and fear, and then he regrets it all because he can see the tears in her eyes. ‘I only mean that you may find that you wish to give it to your child, ma’am,’ he explains. She frowns at him at little before her face softens slightly.

‘I do not anticipate that I will require it returned, Lord M, but I appreciate your concern,’ she almost stumbles out and he nods in acceptance.

When he first meets the Princess Royal, he thinks she is beautiful, this daughter of the Queen he loves. And he thinks its perhaps time he renews his offer.

She looks up from where she stands across her daughter’s cradle from him, and gives him a small but tremulous smile.

‘I find, Lord M, that the Princess Royal has a package all her own,’ she says, and he thinks he understands.

 

***

 

He’s tired, he thinks, and the Tories can see it. It’s time he makes way for another, he knows, but the Tories will first have their time in the sun.

He knows she’s been watching, waiting for him to tell her for months. It’s been coming for months, since that first vote of no confidence. The second one is the nail in the coffin, and he finds that the only reason he cares is that it means separation from her.

They’ll still have their letters, he thinks, and it’s a small consolation.

When he arrives at the palace, she’s tense, and he thinks she knows what’s coming. But when he comes to speak the words, he finds them stuck in his throat.

‘Ma’am…’ He takes a breath, and looks down at the ground in front of her. This will be easier, he thinks, if he doesn’t have to stare into her eyes. He’s done this before; he knows exactly what those eyes will look like. ‘I must inform you that a second vote of no confidence in my ministry was successful today,’ he says quietly. ‘As a consequence, I feel it is my duty to offer Your Majesty my resignation as your Prime Minister.’

He finally looks up at her, and her face impossibly sad, and he purses his lips.

‘I suppose I have no choice but to accept,’ she almost asks, and a rueful smile crosses his face.

‘No, ma’am,’ he says, and she holds his gaze for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. But she looks down and blinks them away before looking back up at him.

‘What will you do now?’ she asks, swallowing, and he can tell she’s trying to distract herself, and he feels the sting of tears in his own eyes.

‘I will return to Brocket Hall, ma’am. Saint Chrysostom has been long neglected.’

‘And your rooks,’ she says quietly, and he sucks in a breath.

‘They will provide some company,’ he says quietly.

‘You will take the package I left with you to Brocket Hall?’ and he lets out a small, rueful huff of a laugh. He will never lie to her again; there was no point. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

‘It never leaves me, ma’am,’ he answers, and he sees a tear spill down her cheek. 'Ma’am,’ he whispers, almost begs, and she closes her eyes for a moment.

‘Then I think I should like to visit Brocket Hall, Lord M,’ she says, and his eyes flick to hers. It’s not a good idea, he thinks. Whilst he would love to have the privilege of hosting the Queen in his home, showing her the lake and the bridge and the gardens, he’s just not sure he can bear seeing the Queen with her little family in his home.

‘Your Majesty and His Royal Highness are welcome whenever you wish, ma’am,’ he replies, and she smiles.

‘Thank you, Lord M.’

It’s mark of her maturity that she doesn’t almost cause a constitutional crisis this time trying to keep him by her side. Marriage and a child have tempered her, as has experience and age, and he thinks she will be a great Queen with Albert at her side.

Besides, he thinks she understands what the inevitable looks like now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he finally gives the message to his valet, he hopes she will forgive him for the liberty he is taking in the irregularity of his letter, the lack of greeting or wishes for her health, but he cannot be anything less than himself with her, especially not now.  
> It contains only three words: _I am sorry._

It all happens so quickly, he thinks. It’s Emma that sends him a message with the news before it can reach the papers.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been shot at, but the first one had been, in hindsight, quite harmless with his gun with no bullets.

This second one had not.

He’s distraught – she will be devastated. And there’s nothing he can do.

Three days later she gives birth to a little boy, a Prince, and Emma tells him through her tears that she called for him during her labour.

 

***

 

He becomes distraught with worry when he doesn’t receive a letter from her in a month.

Emma tells him she has seen no one other than her children since the funeral.

He knows she’s mourning, and has just given birth, but he’d become accustomed to a letter at least once a week, and he struggles to imagine the young, vibrant, beautiful Queen he knew shutting off all communication with everyone. But he knows grief all too well, the grief of losing a spouse, how it can consume a person.

So he writes her another letter, a short missive with his condolences and another bittersweet congratulations on the birth of her son, which he promptly tears up. He wonders what he would have liked to hear at the death of his own wife, or of his son. But he can think of nothing; nothing would have soothed those deepest of wounds. 

But then his wife and son had both held his heart. He had loved his wife with everything, despite it all. 

He doesn’t know what she is feeling. He has no frame of reference for this, not really.

He’s not even sure how he feels.

When he finally gives the message to his valet, he hopes she will forgive him for the liberty he is taking in the irregularity of his letter, the lack of greeting or wishes for her health, but he cannot be anything less than himself with her, especially not now.

It contains only three words: _I am sorry._

 

***

 

When she announces in a letter that she would appreciate his presence at Windsor later that month, it’s an understatement to say that he’s surprised.

He hasn’t seen her in well over a year, and although their correspondence has since returned to its weekly regularity, he aches at the thought of seeing her again. She is vague in her request for his presence, so despite not being entirely sure of why he’s been summoned to Windsor of all places, he packs his things and makes his way to the castle.

She’s still wearing black, he notices, and she looks older now. She carries more weight on her shoulders, he knows. The weight of the crown is heavy when carried alone, and combined with the weight of motherhood, he is not surprised that she is struggling, but she bears it with a strength and dignity he’s always seen in her.

It hurts that it is no longer his place to stand by her side. 

He hadn’t quite anticipated just how much he would _feel_ , seeing her again. It almost overwhelms him when she walks into the room where he’s standing; the anguish for her loss and pain, the ache of her beauty, the agony of seeing her again after so long. It’s both forever and a moment, really – nothing has changed, but everything has changed. He can see it when their eyes meet across the room. She still takes his breath away, his Queen, even after all this time.

He wonders what she sees when she looks at him now.

They are not alone; Emma is sitting discreetly in a corner, her eyes carefully studying the needlework in her lap. But he doesn’t mind – Emma will never breathe a word of what takes place in this room, he knows.

‘Lord M,’ she says, taking his hands, and oh, how wonderful her soft hands feel in his once more. Her voice is warm but there’s something else in there too, something he’s not entirely sure he can name. ‘It has been too long,’ she says, and her voice is filled with genuine regret, he thinks.

‘Ma’am. It has been a long time,’ he agrees. ‘I trust Your Majesty and the young Princess and Prince are all well.’

‘We are, thank you. Your retirement at Brocket Hall appears to sit well with you,’ she says, and she’s being kind; he knows he looks terrible. His clothes are looser and his hair greyer with worry over her.

He’d contemplated returning to Dover House, just for a little while, but he’d cursed his own selfishness. What could he do for her now? He had officially retired, no longer taking his place at the House – although he could return if he wanted to – and he was no one to her now, except perhaps an old friend. He could do nothing, be nothing.

So he stayed at Brocket Hall and wrote her letters.

He has kept every one she has sent him; he has boxes of them now. They are filled with everything and nothing; stories of her children, the goings on of Parliament, the inanities of court life, Robert Peel’s latest attempts at civility. He treasures them, these letters that come three or four times a week now.

‘I enjoy the peace and quiet,’ he says quietly. ‘The parliament of the rooks is far more pleasing a sound,’ he says, smiling softly, and she smiles back, and it’s like he never left and nothing like it at all.

But then she drops his gaze and his hands, and the mood has suddenly changed.

‘I trust you have kept my gift to you safe,’ she says quietly, and her eyes meet his and he blinks.

After all this time, after all that has happened…

A fresh wave of emotion hits him. ‘It is the most precious thing to me, ma’am,’ he almost whispers, and he sees her swallow and blink, her eyes becoming glassy. But he’s still not sure why he’s here – a thousand reasons have crossed his mind and have been discarded and he’s left with only one. ‘Do you wish it returned to you?’ he grates out, and his voice is nowhere near as gentle as he would have liked.

He hears her suck in a breath and he forces himself to meet her eyes, and he thinks perhaps that this is not why he’s here. Her face has lost what little colour it had and he regrets his words almost instantly, but she speaks before he can take his words back.

‘I do not desire that,’ she says, her gaze piercing but wary.

‘Then I will continue to treasure it beyond all else, ma’am,’ he replies quickly, his voice low, nodding to her, and he watches as she settles.

He realises, however, that he will, one day, have to return it to her. He should return it to her.

He is an old man, and she should not reign alone.

The first thing she does after greeting him is request that he go riding with her, and they fall back into an easy pattern. She has thrown herself into her work, and their conversations are filled with insightful comment and intelligent questions, and he admits to himself that he’s missed this. As much as he enjoys the quiet of Brocket Hall, he has missed his time serving his Queen, talking with his Queen. Just being with this woman he loves.

He watches with some jealousy at the attentions of the unmarried men in the court, and of their parents; he knows all too well the prize she would be. But he can see that she is not interested; their attentions are subtle enough as not to offend a Queen in mourning and she can quite easily ignore them.

She is still wearing black.

It has been eleven months.

When he leaves Windsor some weeks later, he’s still not entirely sure why she had summoned him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Then, ma’am, you should know,’ he begins quietly, taking a step closer to her, and she’s staring at him with those wide eyes, ‘that you have something of mine also.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again, I couldn't help myself...
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments - they have inspired me to finish this.

When she states in a letter some six months later that she feels her children need some time away from London, he sees the request for what it is, so, against his better judgement, he issues her an invitation to stay at Brocket Hall. He suggests that perhaps he could invite the Duchess or Lady Portman also, but he’s almost amused to note that she pays his suggestion no attention whatsoever in her reply.

When she arrives still dressed in black, he thinks he understands. No one is going to suggest anything at all about a Queen who is still in official mourning, even one who chooses to stay with a widower in a country house unchaperoned and with her children.

He wonders if Peel knows she’s here.

‘Welcome to Brocket Hall, Your Majesty,’ he says and his lips twist slightly. She smiles rather imperiously at him, returning his greeting.

‘You will have to take me on a tour, Lord M. I have not been here before,’ she announces as the servants move her things from her carriage to the house, and he nods.

‘Of course, ma’am,’ he replies, bowing slightly. ‘Whenever you are ready.’

 

***

 

Her daughter is the spitting image of her, right down to the blue eyes and fair skin, and he is delighted to see that she has inherited her mother’s sweetness. She hides behind her governess’s skirts despite her mother’s requests that she greet him, and he can’t say he blames her; the little girl has known more loss in her life than most. He must look rather intimidating, this old man she would not remember. She will warm to him in time, he thinks, and it doesn’t take long; when he suggests to her mother the next day that perhaps she would like to meet his companions at Brocket Hall, she narrows her eyes slightly at him but acquiesces, smiling wryly at him when she realises where they’re heading.

He offers the little Princess some bird seed to toss onto the ground and it only takes a few minutes before she’s smiling happily at him and laughing as the birds descend only metres away.

When he looks at her mother to see her reaction, their eyes meet, and he thinks he sees something, just very faintly, just perhaps, that explains why she did not request a chaperone.

 

***

 

It’s late when he finds her the next day, sitting and watching his rooks. It’s such a cliché, he thinks, that she should be sitting here now enjoying the creatures he’d so cruelly but so gently used to break her heart so long ago. She would not have happy memories here. He certainly didn’t, but there was a certain tranquillity in the now dulled and muted pain.

‘Ma’am?’ he says as he approaches, and she turns to look at him.

She is not wearing black.

The shimmering pale blue of her dress makes him blink, and he thinks…he tells himself he is not at all sure as to why she’s here, but something in him is aching and terrified and he blinks.

‘I did not appreciate them the day I came,’ she says, glancing up at the bird-filled trees, and he gives her a rueful smile.

‘I believe you may have been somewhat distracted that day, ma’am,’ he says, his lips twisting in a smile for her benefit, his mind still racing.

‘I think it will take some time for me to appreciate them as you do,’ she replies, and he nods dumbly in agreement.

This cannot be why she is here.

Not now, not after all this time. It is folly, he thinks, and he pushes the thought aside, but it returns, unbidden, after just a few moments.

She stands, and he turns with her, frowning slightly. It’s growing cool; despite the warm spring days, the nights are still cool, and he thinks she should perhaps move inside.

But there is something bothering her, his Queen, and so he waits patiently. It will not be long, he thinks, before she speaks, and he finds he is both desperate and terrified to hear what she has to say.

‘I think I have cried for long enough, Lord M,’ she declares after a moment, turning to face him, but he can hear it, that tremor in her voice when she speaks of her heart to him. She is so close; he could reach out and take her hand, and he’s thrown back to that day. But there will be no subterfuge here again, no careful breaking of hearts. He had promised to care for her heart, this most precious thing that she has given him so willingly.

‘I would not see you cry one day longer, ma’am,’ he replies, shaking his head, ‘but that is not for me to decide.’

‘I think, perhaps, it could be your decision,’ she says slowly, her wide eyes on him, and he sucks in a shaky breath. He knows, now, what she is asking, what she has come here for, what the past few months have been about, and it terrifies him like nothing else has in a long time.

He had not expected this. He wonders if he should have.

But she is still the Queen, and he had still been her Prime Minister, and he was still an old man, and he doesn’t think he could ever really be what she wants him to be.

But that doesn’t mean he should deny her the chance. And oh, how he wants that chance himself.

He just wants her to be happy – oh, what he wouldn’t give to see the brightness and light in her eyes return, the wide-eyed wonder at the world. Even her letters had grown dull in tone since her marriage and the Prince’s death; they lacked the life and vibrancy he had so loved in her. And if he can play any part in seeing her return to happiness…

‘Then, ma’am, you should know,’ he begins quietly, taking a step closer to her, and she’s staring at him with those wide eyes, ‘that you have something of mine also.’ The way the tears appear instantly in her eyes and her mouth opens just a little tells him she knows exactly what he is saying. ‘I believe you have had it for a long time,’ he continues, ‘longer, in fact, than I have had the privilege of this precious gift of yours, and I fear that no matter how much you might try, no matter how much you might wish to, you will not be able to return it to me, for it will be yours always.’

He watches as the tears fall silently down her cheeks, this beautiful Queen of his, so bravely baring herself to him once more.

‘I think, Lord M, that it is time that these two gifts were united,’ she says slowly, and he can barely breathe.

‘There is nothing else in the world that I wish for more than your happiness, ma’am, but I fear my wishing may not make it so.’

‘Then the Queen will make it so,’ she says. The strength in her voice and in her eyes is dazzling and he cannot look away.

‘I believe you will, ma’am. And it will be my privilege to serve you for as long as you wish.’

 

***

 

It’s a week later when they’re standing at the doorway to his house with servants and cases and her children running around, but he can only see her.

‘I hope you have enjoyed your time at Brocket Hall, Your Majesty. That you have found what you sought,’ he says carefully, his voice low.

‘Oh, yes. I think I have, Lord M,’ she replies, her eyes wide, and his lips twist in a small smile. ‘Do you think, perhaps, you might consider storing this package I have entrusted into your care at Dover House for a little while? I think that I may have need of it soon,’ she says, her last words almost breathless, and he can’t really believe what he’s hearing, even now. Even after all their veiled discussions and her firm pronouncements and his desperate, so desperate desire to see her happy, he can’t believe that this unformed dream of his could actually be coming true.

‘That is, if your rooks can spare you,’ she says, and her face is so vulnerable and open and terrified that he can’t help but answer straight away.

‘I think the rooks will be quite fine without me for a while, ma’am,’ he says, and he can’t help but smile at the almost incredulous grin that spreads across her face. She lets out a small laugh, and his smile widens. ‘Although, ma’am, I think they’re getting quite bored of me. They might appreciate another hand feeding them again sometime soon,’ he says quietly, raising his eyebrow slightly in what he knows is a slightly cheeky smile, and she laughs at him again.

‘I think that could be arranged, Lord M.’

 

***

 

When he arrives at the Palace at her summons some months later, his steps are light but his pocket heavy.

She greets him with a wide but almost shy smile, and he’s so in love with his sweet Queen.

‘I have something for you,’ he says, his voice quiet, and the way she bites her lip makes him want to kiss it. So she leads him out of the palace and down into the gardens, slipping her arm through his.

When they reach the little pavilion at the base of the gardens, he notices Harriet and Emma disappear behind a tree and he reaches into his pocket.

‘Does my heart fit into such a small box?’ she almost giggles, and he smiles wryly at her.

‘No, ma’am, but my hope does,’ he says lowly, and her face drops into something more serious, more anticipatory at his tone. She opens the box slowly to find a gold ring with a simple sapphire resting on top.

Her eyes are bright and wet and he knows the same wondrous love is reflected in his own eyes. The ring slides easily onto her small, soft finger, and they stare down at it.

His ring on her finger takes his breath away, and he cannot help but smile.

It already done; she has advised her Privy Council, made her requests to her Prime Minister and Parliament, and it would appear that she is to make him the happiest of men in only a few short weeks.

When she reaches for his face, her palm resting on his jaw and her warm fingers barely touching the skin of his cheek, he is transported back to a darkened hallway and an ache in his chest.

But when her lips brush his lips this time, the tips of her fingers in his hair, he thinks that space in his chest that has ached for so long is being filled again, filled so much that he thinks he’ll burst with love for her.

And so he kisses her softly, carefully, tenderly, until they hear soft footfalls, the crush of leaves and slightly raised voices.

 

***

 

When he presses his lips softly to hers the evening before their wedding, he can feel her tremble, and he pulls back, searching her face.

‘Do you remember that day?’ she whispers, her thumbs stroking the back of his hands, and he raises his eyebrows. ‘The day you told me I should keep my heart intact for someone else?’

‘I do,’ he says rather knowingly, and she ducks her head and smiles.

‘I think it was rather naïve of you,’ she announces, and he laughs.

‘Do you now?’

‘Yes. You assumed that my heart was mine to give away.’

He frowns, conceding her point. ‘You told me that I had it already, ma’am,’ he replies.

‘You did. But I do not think I gave it.’

‘Are you insinuating that I stole it, ma’am?’ he teases. ‘Because then I think we are in a conundrum, for I certainly did not give mine so willingly, and yet you have held it for so long.’

And she giggles. ‘I think perhaps our hearts act without our knowledge. Or our consent.’

He nods, and brings her hand up to his lips to gently kiss her fingers. ‘Yes, ma’am. I think they most certainly do.’

‘I suppose I should tell you that I have no intention of ever returning it,’ she whispers in his ear, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and he really is far too old to have his breath stolen by a simple kiss. Yet here he is, overwhelmed by this beautiful woman whose sweet kisses are quickly becoming as essential to his life as air.

So he presses his own kiss to her lips before pulling back and smiling at the way her eyes remain closed. ‘I am most pleased to hear it.’

 

***

 

When he’s holding her in his arms in the darkness after their wedding, he’s not quite sure this isn’t a dream. But she’s so warm and soft in his arms as she presses the occasional soft kiss to his neck, and he thinks his dreams were never, ever, this wonderful.

‘Well, you have quite all of me now,’ she says rather matter-of-factly and his heart swells in his chest, that heart that had been missing from its space for so long in her care, now sharing that space and beating in time with hers. He turns, pulling her to him, and he kisses her soundly, this beautiful wife of his.

‘As you do me.’


End file.
